


Presumption

by onlyacoffee



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Coffee and Angst, Gen, M/M, One-Sided Enjolras/Grantaire, Rule 63, not much else, now with 50 percent more girls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:35:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyacoffee/pseuds/onlyacoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Enjolras left alone," Feuilly said, the quiet of her voice startling Grantaire. She did not sound hesitant; her tone was carefully polite, stating a fact, and Grantaire felt himself grow irritated.</i>
</p><p> <i>"And so? I am not responsible for his safekeeping. Enjolras can take care of himself very well - in fact, I suspect he does not need us at all and would rather we leave him in peace for ever!"</i></p><p> <i>Feuilly lifted her head again and fixed her stare on Grantaire; Grantaire, to avoid her eyes, looked at the yellow flames dancing in the chimney, the brightness against the dimness of the room making his eyes itch.</i></p><p> <i>"I was mistaken, then," Feuilly murmured. "My apologies."</i></p><p> <br/>Grantaire and Feuilly have a talk, which turns to Enjolras - and quickly becomes uncomfortable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Presumption

**Author's Note:**

> this was written as an answer to a drabble prompt on tumblr - "anything with rule 63 Feuilly". I'm thinking of writing more in this 'verse, about other characters too? well, if I get ideas!

"Here," came Feuilly’s voice from somewhere over Grantaire’s right shoulder.

Grantaire looked up at the young woman’s face, pale and drawn under her constellations of freckles, her eyes lined with wariness, then down to the table in front of him, where Feuilly had just set a hot cup of coffee. The steam rose in fragile whisps in the cool air of the café; it took a moment for Grantaire to realise he was staring.

"Thank you," he said, voice gruff, as Feuilly shrugged and sat down in a chair across the table. She pulled out a thick worn book from her bag.

"Up late tonight, are we?" he asked.

"So are you."

"No, I am merely already home, as I have made this," and he opened his arms in a wide circle, as if embracing the entire room, very nearly spilling the hot cup of coffee. "My home. This place, these walls and this roof; this light and these shadow; but most of all, this chair, suited to my form, and this table, suited to my elbows."

"So it is," Feuilly didn’t look at Grantaire, only absent-mindedly wet her fingers on the tip of her tongue and turned the pages of her heavy volume. Grantaire grunted.

"And you, Feuilly, are decidedly grouchy this evening."

"Not especially," Feuilly said, her tone light and agreeable. Her hair, usually tied in a neat bun, had started to come undone, and she tucked a strand behind her ear. "I brought you coffee, didn’t I?"

"And I thanked you."

"So you did," she nodded, raising her eyes. "A very pleasant exchange, I think. I have no reason to be - ah, as you say, grouchy. I’m feeling quite well, even.“

"Then why are not going home?"

Feuilly looked down to the page again and stayed silent. Grantaire took another sip of his coffee, wishing that by some magic it would transform into another kind of beverage, stronger, the moment it touched his tongue.

"Enjolras left alone," Feuilly said, the quiet of her voice startling Grantaire. She did not sound hesitant; her tone was carefully polite, stating a fact, and Grantaire felt himself grow irritated.

"And so? I am not responsible for his safekeeping. Enjolras can take care of himself very well - in fact, I suspect he does not need us at all and would rather we leave him in peace for ever!"

Feuilly lifted her head again and fixed her stare on Grantaire; Grantaire, to avoid her eyes, looked at the yellow flames dancing in the chimney, the brightness against the dimness of the room making his eyes itch.

"I was mistaken, then," Feuilly murmured. "My apologies."

Grantaire snorted.

"What did you assume? My friend," and the word, though not untrue, seemed as bitter as Grantaire’s laugh, "whatever you assume from what you see of me tonight - and I believe you have been in my company often enough to know that tonight is not different than any other nights where the sky is as black and the cats are gray - then, my friend, I can assure you that you are as right as Enjolras always believes you to be."

This time, it was Feuilly’s turn to frown.

"I don’t know what you mean."

"I think you do."

"I do not. I am not always right - and neither is Enjolras, for that matter. He does not believe - or expect - me to be anything that he does not believe each of our comrades to be."

"Except me."

"Now you are the one in the wrong; I assumed," she stressed the word, looking sternly at Grantaire, "that you knew that, and that you would have left with him tonight."

"Why would I have?" Grantaire laughed harshly. "He made it quite clear that he wanted to be undisturbed; although if you had gone, I very much doubt he would have minded,"

He paused, waiting - Feuilly’s deliberate lack of response, her tense silence, drove him on. “I have seen how he looks at you. I am sure he would have welcomed it from you.”

"No," Feuilly’s voice had gone impossibly cold, her face white and her lips pressed. She was losing her patience, Grantaire realised with an icy swell of satisfaction. "You are wrong."

She stood and straightened her work gray skirts, glaring fiercely at Grantaire.

"You should have gone and talked to him, instead of staying here and insulting us both. Perhaps, then, you would have known what he himself knew long time ago."

And she exited the room, leaving Grantaire with a lukewarm cup of coffee and an impossible, tenacious hope he still so desperately wanted to drown.


End file.
